Put Out the Dark
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: It starts out slowly, and then, step by step, it goes from there. [M!Alexstrazsa and M!Ysera, pre-WoW era][Request fic for ObeliskX][Warning: Referenced canon rape]


**Notes1:** This is a fic requested by ObeliskX, who came to me one day about a month or so back. They pitched a couple ideas at me to see which ones I could go for: one of them being a story with genderbent characters, another being about a male night elf who becomes a warrior/hunter over a druid post-War of the Ancients in the matriarchal night elf society (although this one would be an inverse on the harem tropes, so the women would take an interest in him). We went back and forth on it for a bit, in which I expressed in doing a genderbent story - something which I have not done before - but at the same time outlining how small a change in gender would be, if there would be any at all: Fem!Garrosh could be more calculating but still just as brutal; there's already a fem!Thrall in the form of Overlord Geyarah in _Battle for Azeroth_ who's looking to slaughter draenei due to the injustices wrought to the Draenor orcs; I couldn't really see any changes in fem!Illidan or fem!Arthas barring the latter being pushed by Terenas into marrying Daval Prestor (as fem!Deathwing masquerading in male form or a male!Sinestra); and there would be no change whatsoever in male!Sylvanas because, well, it's Sylvanas, what difference would genderbending her make?

Ultimately, I decided on doing a story focused around m!Alexstrasza and m!Ysera, set after the events of the _Day of the Dragon_ novel. Unfortunately, this is also where I hit a major roadblock: I'm not comfortable with writing themes that contain rape in them, even when they're implied or referenced; it's the biggest reason why I took so long finishing _Your Heart Is A Vise_ , even as I explained in the notes how much I preferred the Nothing Is Scarier/Paranoia Fuel tropes over outright, visceral depictions of shock value in the horror genre. I had also had second thoughts on doing it and was very close to dropping it altogether, not only because of this but also because I wondered just how I could approach the subject of such an aftermath without making it seem like, in its basic distillation, "this is not how it goes". Of course, this lies on me for pursuing a heavy topic, seeing as I myself decided on what it should be about based on the ideas discussed with ObeliskX.

The end result isn't really up to snuff to my other writings, I will admit, but I wanted to keep my word and get it out the door to the best of my ability. I do apologize if it's not quite up there in quality, but I like to think of this as a brief window in time of a vulnerable moment in the history of the Dragonflights, so thus not get too deep into the matter. (However, I did enjoy coming up with the genderbent versions and would most likely do another one-shot with them that's way more fluff and less angsty, so that's something I'd get around to in the future.)

* * *

This is what he remembers, when the chaos has ended and only the arctic chill that permeates the Wyrmrest Temple remains their sole, true companion:

He's out away from the halls of fire-blackened stone that give Grim Batol its name, but the second he hears that roar Yserof freezes. Freezes, and notices how the walls shake and the torches in their sconces are snuffed with not a gust but invisible knife swiping motions down to the nub. He whirls around, the horns on his head picking up on the vibrations—captures them, and recognizes the deep, throaty timbre colored with pure, raw anger.

Alexstrasz!

It's as if his anger is a virus, sentient and airborne in the way it travels, primal and colored—splashed—with a grief that is endless, guttural, all-consuming. It is a virus, a bitter poison with nothing to stop it, and hearing that horrible, wretched sound come out of his brother is akin to being drowned, fills him from the tips of his claws to the scales on his face. Every muscle, every bone, every vein fills with Alex's cries.

"My children! My childreeeen! What have you done? What have you done?!" He draws the last word out until it becomes a wordless, lion-like scream that causes detritus to spill in fine showers from a ceiling that is bathed in the light of eventide; and in that moment it is a second skin for Yserof. This is a skin for him to pull on and wear: tightly, uncomfortably, claustrophobic with himself.

Even now, thinking back on it, the mere thought of what Alex endured sets his teeth to bare and the skin of his Kaldorei mantle to prickle in goosebumps. The natural energy stored within him spills, like a fountain, floods all over dead grass and wilted flowers and seeps through the cracks and niches until they're all but thoroughly drenched in it. Slowly, struggling, the flowers pick their heads up, the grass changes from straw yellow to the faintest, ghostly shade of green that grow up from the earth and spread—crawl—across the sanctum. Beads of life magic and elemental spirit drip from increasingly damp leaves, rise up into the air from each blade of grass and every stigma and stamen in the wildflowers that are reddening and darkening and brightening the closer his footsteps bring him to the elven man curled atop the mound. His long red hair pools around him like a robe, but Yserof can see the claw-tipped hands clapped tightly, almost white in their grip, on his elbows as if to pull the meat from them.

Yserof takes care not to quicken his pace, but he puts weight down on his feet in a way that lets Alexstrasz know he's behind him. To which he does, judging by how quickly his ears perk up at the sound before drooping low and flat against the sides of his head.

He swallows around the lump that's starting to take shape in his throat and has to clench his fists to keep from shaking. To keep from giving in and lashing out-

But that has already happened.

Justice has been met.

Yserof can recall very clearly the moment he flew into Grim Batol's heart, down to the last detail:

Red dragons, flying everywhere. Screeching, yelling, throwing off their green-skinned riders into the pits below or wresting control from the reins to divebomb to the ground and crush the unlucky sod underneath the bulk of their bodies.

The stones are scorched black, some of which have turned to glass from the heat of dragonfire. They crunch, snap, shatter as burning, screaming orcs flail back and forth, up and down, until one of them gets too close to the edge, trips or sails past one of their own who isn't on fire, and plunges to their death.

Orc warlocks and ogre magi trade spell for spell against the smaller drakes from the other flights, green and blue and bronze. Some of the reds don't quite succeed in killing their riders, so when they pick themselves up and draw their weapons it's either to meet them against a claw as big as their head or fend off a gout of flame with shields that melt in their hands and eat away at the armor encasing them. The pain is enough to distract them when the drake rears back and leaps forward, punching their horns through wire mesh and cloth into soft meat

There is Alexstrasz, and it's when Yserof rounds the corner does he see the instance his brother devours Nekara Skullcrusher. It's no different than watching a pelican take in fish: he stretches his neck out to its full length, snatch up Nekara in his jaws, rears back, and grinds his teeth down in a single, final clamp.

It's a shame, really, that the crackle of bone and tomato-slick smash of blood is overwhelmed by the sound of magic and steel, but that is an image that will stay with Yserof for the rest of his days. He'll admit to no one but himself that he wishes that he had been the one to have killed Nekara, and not even so suddenly—rather he would pin her down and lay into her, tearing each limb apart with an aching slowness that would seem almost gentle. He'd have left the head for last, would have let her scream her pitiful, ancestral cantrips, her useless curses; and then he would silence her forever. Make her die in agony and draw it out; a quick death was too generous even for her.

But that is neither here nor there. The nightmare, for the most part is over: the Demon Soul is destroyed and what remains of the Dragonmaw Clan is rounded up by the Alliance, sentenced to whatever fate awaits them. Yserof does not care for them; and although he should, he does not even care that Deathwing—bold, ambitious Nelthari—has escaped justice.

It should matter, but it doesn't. Not right now.

Deathwing can wait, just as she will wait for the right time to strike again.

"Brother," Yserof says softly, and comes to stand by Alex's side so the man can see him. He's made a note to never stand behind him again after the last time—the one time—he tried to get his attention, and Malygosa and Nozdormi pulled them apart before things further escalated. He hadn't meant for it to turn out like it did, but the red drakonids had ushered Alexstrasz away, and Malygosa had dragged Yserof somewhere he couldn't fathom to remember now that he thought about it. She had said something about leaving Alex alone, he wasn't ready to talk yet.

"When will he?" Yserof asked.

He would kick himself later at the scandalous look she had given him, then kick himself more when she deflated and squirmed. "I don't know," she said, and looked behind her toward the entrance of the Ruby Sanctum. "Not even I can say for sure."

That had been a week ago, and Alex has not been seen since. Yserof had bid his time, waited for the Life-Binder to come out, to talk, to do something. Yet he did not; neither the drakonids nor Korialstrasza would comment any further on his well-being or his whereabouts beyond what had surely become rote: _Lord Alexstrasz is_ _not taking any visitors at this time._ _Please respect his privacy._

"But just how much does he need?" Yserof had asked Nozdormi not three days ago, when he had once again been turned away. "We're his family, aren't we? He can come to us!"

Nozdormi, who had been taking careful deliberations to have everything in order before she returned to her vigil in the timeways, stopped pacing the floor (muttering something about quantum equations and temporal displacements he couldn't begin to comprehend) and whirled on him with such a stern look Yserof stepped away from her. "You do realize what happened to him, don't you?" she had asked.

"As I should." he told her. "But even so-"

"Even so, this is not something that can be rushed."

"He needs help!"

"And we will give him that," she said, her features softening. "Do you think Korialstrasza and the others are being evasive because they don't believe we are capable? They've been trying, Sero...but from my understanding Alex hasn't been able to open up. What Deathwing and the Dragonmaw did to him and the children…we're going to find them." Her upper lip curled, exposing elongated fangs, and the soft blue light that was dim in her eyes had grown hard and bright. "Someday, Sero, they are going to answer for what they did to him...but not yet." She licked her lips and closed her mouth, pursing her lips to a thin line. "We have to tend to our own first, one day at a time."

"And Alex? The reds can't keep him locked away from us."

"No. They can't, and they know. So sooner or later, when the time is right, they will allow us through."

"And then what?"

"And then," Nozdormi echoes with a soft, weary sigh, "then we can begin to heal."

"Will they let us in? Will they even let me in?"

"Only one way to find out, yes?"

"Brother," Yserof says again, and slowly gets down onto his knees so that he is level with the rise of Alex's equally slow yet hesitant gaze. "It's me. Sero. I came to see you."

Alex stares at him, eyes round and searching; the lower half of his face is still hidden by the way his arms are crisscrossed, but when he speaks it doesn't sound so muffled as to be indiscernible. "Sero," he says, and Yserof nods acknowledgment. A huff, and the Life-Binder's brows furrow, but they appear more worried than angry. "I told Kori I wasn't-"

"I spoke to her," Yserof cuts in gently, and doesn't flinch at the way those eyes regard him with surprise that settles into smoldering rigidity. "Kori let me through." First by appealing to the drakonids guarding the entrance, then pleading, and when they made a move to push him back did Korialstrasza called them out and commanded them to step aside. They had said nothing, merely locked gazes with her in a silent challenge...and then lowered their weapons. She had looked at him then, long and searching, a storm hidden behind eyes set in a face smooth and cold as marble. For a moment it seemed as though she wasn't going to speak, would simply stare at him, perhaps doubting his intention or her decision, and send him away at once.

She did not. She stepped aside and bade him come through the entrance without interruption and nary a word but the offer that went unsaid: _Please help him._

 _How then?_ Yserof asked himself, in those days past, and asked himself again as he had stepped through. _After everything he went through, how could I possibly ease his pain?_

"Why?" Alex picks his head up and plants his chin firmly on his arms. "Why would she do that? Why even bother?"

"Brother, I-"

"You wouldn't understand," the Life-Binder spits out, low and rough and wounded at the edges. "You don't know what I went through. What the children-" He stops, throat clicking and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He heaves a shaky sigh, raises a hand to run it through the hair parting his horns. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, the skin around them rubbed red and raw. "I should've done more," he says quietly, words clogged in his throat. "I should've done something. Instead I...I…." He trails off again, staring away from Yserof. Staring past him, gaze unfocused and faraway.

It's the same, glazed look he had days ago, when Yserof approached him from behind. Malygosa called it the thousand-yard stare, something that was most commonly seen in soldiers but could be found among people who were victims of other horrific, debilitating traumas.

Set in that timeless, youthful face, Yserof can't help but think it goes much farther than that—so much so. "Brother," he says, and although it's just the two of them so far as he's concerned he keeps it quiet enough so only Alex can hear. "What happened to you was not your fault. Man or woman, it does not make them any lesser than what they are. It does not make you any lesser than what you are."

He wonders if he should reach out—reach, and take his brother's face in his hands. Cup his cheek, touch his shoulder, move the hair out of his eyes that have fallen and are getting in the way. The thought is tempting, reassuring...but only just. Would it even be right to give him that now, as fragile and vulnerable as he is?

 _One day at a time,_ Malygosa had said, and that...that at least felt like the right thing to do.

Slowly, like a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon, Yserof calls forth the life magic and materializes emerald wings into being. Shapes them, molds them, into a facsimile of their majesty in his true form, until they are formed in the state between solidity and transparency. It wakens Alex from the stupor, elicits a gasp and wide, startled eyes, and for the briefest of moments Yserof questions whether this is even a good idea. Can't help but picture his brother getting up and running away from him, crying, screaming in terror-

It doesn't happen. His wings are already folding Alex in their embrace before the thought even finishes. And Alex...Alex looks at him, stunned and wordless and searchingly. "S-Sero…."

"Do not be afraid, brother," the green dragon says. "Come what may, I will protect you. The flights will protect you. Nelthari will not hurt you anymore. This I guarantee."

This much he can do. It's a tall order and a large claim to make, but...it's going to happen. It _will_.

Some day. And when that day comes, he will be more than eager to beat Malygosa, Nozdormi, and Korialstrasza to the punch at a shot—the only shot—at Deathwing.


End file.
